While You Were Sleeping
by UltraM2000
Summary: Take a peek into the inn rooms late at night; you might be surprised at what you find. Based partly on manga volume 1 introductory illustrations.
1. Viridian

While You Were Sleeping  
  
DISCLAIMER: Don't own anything, but if Hakkai lets me borrow his--Kanan's pocket watch, I'd find a way to polish it up REAL nice.  
  
Quiet by day, and quiet by night. The sleeper is very methodical. He will close the door, undress, arrange everything in the order he will put them on tomorrow, perform his toilet and promptly go to sleep. And that is that.  
  
Faded white pants lie across the chair beside the bed, well-washed with colour-preserving detergent. A trusted brand for him, and for her, at one time. The cuffs are slightly stiff, their hue dulled to a rustier shade thanks to all the blood he has waded through and all the dirt he has tracked through and all the dust of travel gathered upon the journey. Bleach is not on the budget here.  
  
Atop the pants, a green shirt with white cord-buttons and red fasteners. Plastic, most likely, four benign hemispheres reflecting the light like drops of blood. The fabric is soft, thick, warm, worn, like a second skin. Silk? Cotton? Wool? Canvas? Who knows? Does it matter?  
  
Below the chair, shoes, plain canvas affairs, scuffed not on the toes where feet grow, not on the heels where people drag against change, but on the soles, where accelerator pedals are pressed and kicks meet hollow skulls and ribs, and feet slide, trying to gain purchase against an enemies pressing attack. Soles, where feet touch ground, child of earth to earth, where shoes rise and fall to hit the earth, rise and fall to hit the earth; soles, where steps are plotted one by one, and a journey continues.  
  
Upon the bedside table, a monocle and a bandanna. The monocle is thin glass, no use for visual correction, so heaven knows why he uses it. The bandanna is folded, but so crisply and neatly the more perverse wish suddenly to just touch it, put one wrinkle upon it and be satisfied. Nothing can be so perfect. No man can ever be so similarly immaculate.  
  
The sleeper himself sleeps on his front--he ALWAYS sleeps on his front, hands crossed over his chest, upon his lap if he sleeps, enfolding the sake cup that reflects the moon--somewhere, always with fingers safely interlocked, a gesture like prayer. You wonder if it is meant as a guarded gesture, to make sure any blows will hit the sinner's hands before the heart, or if it is tender, as if he is clutching to his breast something (or someone) dear and important, a rare flower, a fragile jewel...  
  
...or a pocket watch.  
  
It usually stays in the pants pocket, the one with the softly fuzzy edges because of frequent use conjuring tissues, small change and rice crackers (the last one for the pet dragon who sleeps peacefully in his shadow) from its depths. The watch is not particularly ornate, nor is it particularly flashy, small, round and gold on its thin gold chain. The glass is cracked from side to side--or rather, it forms a two-pronged divider that bisects the face, separating the roman numerals 8 to 12 from their neighbours, and a tiny offshoot of the fissure sealing 12 in its own small triangle of broken glass. The cogs do not work--they are clogged with dust, age and blood. The watch is old, with Roman numerals, and divulges neither date nor exact time. It captures a brief moment of death and desolation--1.23, an odd little sequence in itself.  
  
The metal is always warm--it is always close to his living skin. Its weight, close to him like a small lump of flesh, ties him down, reminds him he has sinned and must always pay for the sins of his passion. Its presence--something entirely different--reminds him why he has sinned and why he continues to sin as he pays his debts, keeping them in a motley balance. The metal that he holds close to his heart is warm like flesh, and is imbued with the scent of her skin, crushed roses, and her hair, apple blossom wind, and her sweat, faint and delicate sakura. Truly she existed as the whisper of the flowers. It is a scent like incense, of life and death.  
  
The moonlight shines on his face, highlighting the contours of his features. He is not getting any younger, and the faintest outlines of scars criss-cross his cheeks and chin and near the right eye. Smile lines, too, smooth their way across his face, and as the breeze heaves a sigh he turns his head slightly, and you see the peace upon his features, peace sometimes even sleep cannot bestow.  
  
Tonight, he is lucky. He is usually lucky if the heavens do not weep morosely over his form. He dreams not of the past, but the present, visions coloured in scarlets, golds, greens and violets. He sleeps well, and in his sleep, you see him smile, serene and truly happy to belong. 


	2. Incarnadine

Thanks to Konzen for catching the spelling mistake! =^^=;;;  
  
Should he have company, there will definitely be no sleeping and he will catch up on it sometime tomorrow, probably in the afternoon when monkeys are too hot to quarrel and monks are too hot to scold. Tonight, however, alone, he peels his boots from his feet, strips to the waist and jumps into bed. It is a hot night.   
  
Surprisingly, this six-footer of a man sleeps very quietly, often on his side, one arm without the confines of the blanket, one arm underneath his head. It is a throwback from childhood days--you learn very quickly to not make any noise, and to expose as little of a frail body as possible to an attacker nevertheless beloved.   
  
A blue vest has been tossed carelessly across the back of a chair. Its fabric is thick and durable, a hardy shelter against the elements for the wearer. It feels like canvas, or a canvas blend, thick and slightly scratchy. Rips and tears are scattered across the surface, and they look like they have been caused by claws and fangs; if you didn't know any better, the garment could belong to an itinerant hunter. He has tried washing out the vest, but its inner lining along the armpits still has traces of old blood from old wounds on it. It still smells of sweat and man, beast and blood and tears, and no amount of washing can remove his essence from it.  
  
A pair of boots lie under the chair, one on its side with its tongue lolling like a dead animal. They are large and rather clunky, like the owner, and made of good, hard-wearing leather. At the moment, however, they are covered in mud, grass, sand and every other type of muck in between. He will give them a going over tomorrow, perhaps. They will just get dirty again, anyway. The world is not at all clean or pure, and rather hard on those who try too hard to stay so. If dirt and filth repelled him, he wouldn't have saved a dying man from a muddy dirt track back when he was fresh into manhood, and he wouldn't be here bathing in blood like the rest of his comrades.  
  
On the chair itself you see a packet of cigarettes, slightly crushed and dampened with sweat from their long sleep in the man's pants pocket. Hi-Lites. He is not stupid enough to smoke in bed--the last time he tried that, his brother had whupped him good for getting ashes in the bedsheets. He had been twelve at the time. Hi-Lites were what Jien smoked, and so the brand is endeared to the sleeper. The act of lighting up and taking a pull at the stick of tobacco is as comforting today as it was when he first started the habit. It's just that sometimes you need a little more comfort to get through the day.  
  
The man stirs in his sleep, his firm hold upon the blanket in one hand never loosening for a second. Well, you thought it was the blanket until it shone royal blue in the faint glow of moonlight.  
  
It is one article on him that is strangely free of damage or dirt. The bandanna is fine-woven cotton of a good quality. They don't make them like these anymore. A bold black kanji character, 'ki', happiness, stands out upon it dead centre and caged in a trigram-like outline. It is thin at some spots now, like the edges where sweat has come into constant contact with the cloth, and at the ends where it has been untied and retied, and there the cotton's weave is fuzzy, soft, almost like silk. You note, with incongruous amusement, that the man's thumb is unconsciously sliding up and down over a like patch.   
  
It is not his to begin with. It was a gift from long ago, from someone who no longer answers to his name, and in turn given to that person by the sleeper's sire. It was meant to be a good luck charm, and when the sleeper was but a child, the bandanna had been passed down as a parting gesture, a keepsake, a tangible memory, before the sleeper's brother had literally faded into the sunset. It is still with him, because he remembers his roots, though those roots spawned more cruel thorns than forgiving blooms.  
  
Good luck charm indeed! Blood and filth has never touched it. It seems to repel such things. It lies entwined around his tightly-bandaged wrists and in his grip. Like the taste of Hi-Lites and the feel of womanflesh and the smell of blood, this is one thing that has not changed for as long as he could remember. It is a piece of cloth woven of stability, the sleeper's anchor to a world that still hates and fears his kind; the sleeper's way of ensuring he will remember who he is exactly when he wakes in the morning. It smells a little of cigarette smoke, a little bit of sweat, but there isn't a trace of blood on it. Perhaps he also smells he fragrances of long ago, of warm milk and perfume and the security of his elder brother.  
  
The sleeper is ensconced in dreams, and holds a piece of such a dream in his hand. He will rest well tonight, and awaken to another day during which he must keep his heart beating, his lungs drawing in air and the blood in his veins flowing in his veins. It wouldn't say much if he died before the others. Contemplative peace is mirrored on his face. All is well with him, for now.  
  
-----  
  
And to the one sole reviewer at this time (that I know of):  
  
KarotsaMused -- Thankee! Your review kinda surprised me because the computer was acting up and I thought I'd post both completed bits of WYWS in the morning. You want more, you got it, and I'm almost done with Sanzo's part. Goku's should follow. 


	3. Gentian

A/N: I'm not as fond of Sanzo as I am of Gojyo and Hakkai, so excuse this instalment if it doesn't come up to scratch.  
  
A strange one, this. If it rains, he will not sleep. If he is troubled, he cannot sleep. If his comrades are in danger (and this he actively denies), he does not sleep. It is his way, and nothing can change it. Tonight, the sky is clear, he is just plain tired out and the inn he resides in with his three companions is calm.  
  
He appearing to be deeply ensconced in Morpheus' dark robes, but this calmness can be shattered by the slightest ripple. A cricket, a gust of wind, a stalking youkai. It will propel his five foot seven inch frame up from the bed with a gun in his hand, demanding explanation for the disturbance. Too many times has this happened for his body to shake off the figurative shell-shock. He sleeps on his side, the trademark serious, slightly frowning expression etched on his face even in the deepest slumber.  
  
There is almost nothing to betray his identity in the room, not even a pair of slippers on the floor. No, even those are on his feet, the black-socked feet on the end of legs bent in an affectation of a sprint's first desperate, bounding leap. It is as if he is prepared to leave without trace, or as if he wants to do so.   
  
The fabric that flows around his lower body is heavy silk. Cool to the touch when the weather is warm, a graceful blessing when the weather is cold. It is almost comforting, this familiar weight of silk robes against his legs, a presence felt through skin and heavy-duty denim jeans.  
  
The silk has been half-shed from his torso like a chrysalis, revealing his upper body and a good part of his arms to be clad in tight leather, familiar to his body like a second skin. He cannot remember a time when he has been without it, or perhaps he does not wish to remember. The bodysuit is black, solid, foreboding. Black hides red and white and brown, dark blood and bone chips, filth and mud. They cloak sin and tears, hope and hate, death and denial.This black hides blood, and it smells of that and tobacco, fine Marlboro tobacco, and yes, even a little bit of varnish and wood, the red-heart wood that forms the handle of his deadly Smith and Wesson.  
  
The gun. It is small and compact, hidden in his sleeve, but how it shoots; few have lived to tell just how. It is a dragonet, a small, ferocious dragonet very unlike his companion's, a dragonet that spits crystal flame to annihilate its enemies forever and curse them to eternal hell. The handle is smooth with sweat, fitting the sleeper's palm like the hand of a beloved.  
  
Think not, doubt not for a second this is a religious man. The chakra, hidden nevertheless under shimmering blonde locks, is there, crimson and telling. So is the sutra he bears, rolled up safe and kept in those most secret of places where none will find it. Note also, the small, short, almost pathetic string of red prayer beads wound around the fingers of one hand.  
  
YES, prayer beads. Juzu. Just one or two or three of them, red spheres like frozen drops of fresh blood. They are as coral jade--flaws not disguising beauty nor beauty disguising flaws. Flawed the beads are, for one is cracked almost all the way down its smooth surface. It is an ugly crack, like a scar cut into human flesh.  
  
It is probably not hard to understand why he still carries these fragile juzu with him. They were a gift; the first gift he received from unknown parents, the first and last gift he ever bestowed to a friend (friend in question being Kinzanji's unorthodox shihan-dai)*. Well, not quite the last gift--the last gift to the shihan-dai involved a bullet to the cranium. A release. After that broken body had finally given up the ghost, what had remained of the once resplendent rosary fell from the limp, shrivelled talons.  
  
It would have been a shame to decline a gift, even if it is something returned. The beads hold memories that he would like to throw away, but he can't quite find a good reason to do so. After all, these are memories of blood, and death, and severed limbs and silver-brown hair dipping into the rippling pools of red, but they are also memories of stability, security and love; peace, pipes and paper planes.  
  
The red of the prayer beads is swallowed by shadow as he turns over, mumbling in his sleep. It sounds suspiciously like 'shishou'.  
  
He was told to be strong once and has needed no second telling. It's just that sometimes he forgets that he was once weak; he runs so fast and far he forgets where he came from; he fights so hard he forgets the doubt of defeat. Many times he even forgets the beads, restrung with crude rope and shoved into a pocket within his sleeves. When he does remember, then he remembers also that he wasn't always alone, he wasn't always running, he wasn't always fighting. It is in this he takes security, and in his dreams he awaits the day when he won't have to run or fight for a long, pleasant time. It will come when he finishes this journey. Tomorrow, he will start again, intent on his strength, his life, and his goals. He asks for nothing else. He is always so.  
  
-----  
  
*shihan-dai -- one rank below the master, or the 'shihan'. Can be translated as 'instructor' or 'helper/successor to the master'.  
  
Seriously, all my reviewers so far--thanks. I've never gotten reviews so quickly ^_^ *huggles the reviewer-chans*  
  
B.O.I. -- You got it. Glad you enjoyed the Hakkai bit.  
  
ruishi -- Haven't we all, now? 0:)  
  
Firn -- thanks, senpai!  
  
Ves -- This IS planned as a four-parter. Fear not.  
  
KarotsaMused -- Here's Sanzo for yeh.  
  
E. Xiku -- I feel so flattered! 


	4. Aurous

Is it very hard to tell that he has been imprisoned, once, long ago? His small frame luxuriates in the space, the sheer space it has been given on this bed. He claims it, or his body claims it, sprawling all over the bed in 20, 000 most uncomfortable looking postures. Still, he never wakes up with a crick in his neck, or a twinge in his back--only with the hunger that can be satisfied by sunshine, breakfast, and a jolly old bicker with his counterpart. His hunger is a deeper one than most, bound since 500 years previous and continuing to be bound.  
  
The room is a mess. He isn't even pretending to be neat. One boot lies dead center on the floor, the other scrunched up in a corner. They are made of good, solid leather, worn upon the heels and toes and soles and all over to a comfortable suppleness. Their golden fasteners are undone too. Considering the dirt and grime the soles of the boots have tracked in (the innkeeper will not be pleased with the mess), the golden fasteners are impeccably shiny. The youth seems to treasure these pieces of metal like something far more precious. They are as new, gleaming like pieces of the summer sun.  
  
There's a shirt resting on the bedside table, a broad red stripe bordered with black running down its length. Its sleeves are short, the cuffs wide and the buttonholes stiff with dirt. The black border is almost silken, and slips over one's fingers. The stripe is a concealed pocket, big enough to hide something the size of a chocolate roll, or tonight, several small meatbuns. They feel squishy in your palm. So _that_ explains why the shirt seemed so bulky!  
  
The fabric itself is a little thicker than it looks, and slightly rough. Easily mantained. Difficult to damage or penetrate. Stains wash out easier, whether they're dumpling sauce, springroll oil, bile, spittle or blood. Blood is the worst-case scenario, but one, sadly, encountered quite often.   
  
Faded pants lie on the bed, one leg crumpled up, frozen in a half-kneel. They are becoming threadbare at the knees and the base of the legs, where clothing rubs leather, skin and stony ground. Still, they're good pants, and they've lasted him this far. He'll be a little sad should the day finally come when he has to throw them away. He hates throwing things away. He doesn't really think it fair.  
  
Still more clothing lies strewn across the room. Two belts at the foot of the bed, one too thick to fit the loops of the pants. You wonder briefly where it goes. There is a short orange cape, frayed at the end and slightly scorched and bloodied. He must have battled hard today, but that stands to reason. He knows he can fight, and he fights well. Why squander such God...Earth-given talent? There are shoulder shields, too, and cloth padding, joining cape to protect the boy's neck. The green-bordered shields have great claw-like portrusions curving out from them. Perhaps they are there to remind the boy he has similar attributes.  
  
You wonder how he has the time and patience to put all this on in the morning.  
  
The sleeper grunts, turns on his front. When this one does something, he devotes all attention to it. Nothing will wake him up except other, more pressing needs. Needs for bathrooms. Needs for breakfasts. Needs for battle. Often the third is neither need nor choice, but a summons to fight alongside his comrades.  
  
One hand brushes his forehead hesitantly, and you see the glint of cold metal, half-hidden by the veritable bush of chocolate-brown hair. This is his bind, his limiter, to keep his true self, the equal to Tenkai, from bursting out onto the world and wreaking more havoc in ten minutes than the whole group can wreak in ten months. It also keeps a firm hold upon memories of long ago, when a child was still a child and his heart was simple and his needs even simpler. Give him the warmth of the sun, and he would be happy. Let his brother and his tutor stay also, and he is content. Spirit away any part of this and there will be hell to pay, as Tenkai so unfortunately found out.  
  
Yes, they were the ones to blame. Trap an animal, one knowing nothing, and it will bite and claw until there is nothing left to bite and claw, if only it can get free. In the sleeper's mind, there is only a great white spot where those days are supposed to be, and 500 spring breezes, 500 teasing summer suns, 500 miserable autumns and 500 winters of death. It was in one of those springs he made his first friend after his grip upon the sun wavered. It was inferior compared to what he had before, but it was soft, warm, and golden, like living sunlight. He was happy to be with it, and it was happy in his company. It was one of the winters of death that lost him that friend, one of the winters of death that taught him never to let go lest things are lost. He lives as such, seizing onto an enemy and fighting him to the death, seizing onto his food and nearly inhaling it, seizing onto his new sun, following its path, wondering at its brightness and never letting it out of his sight.  
  
It seems, also, that that winter made one grudging concession to him, or perhaps it sought to mock him. A near-miss stings more than a full failure, for you are left with the taste of things that might have been, and it is a bitter mixture indeed. The small, ratty golden feather in the youth's grip will attest to that. A last gift. The first pain after so long. A piece of a piece of the sun, to tide him over until the sun should rise again.  
  
A sigh escapes the boy, and he buries his head deeper in the pillow. the feather trembles in his grip. One foot deftly hooks the edge of the blanket and draws it up, and one hand grabs it and wraps it all around his body. All this without even batting an eyelash. He continues to sleep. Tomorrow--what is tomorrow? Is it food? Fighting? Mystery? Mayhem? Love? Loss? Past? Present? The only way to find out is to live, and he intends to do just that. Just as all the travellers do, racing towards a setting sun.  
  
And so, this concludes WYWS! This'll be my last piece for a while, as I'm off to Japan this week. I'll probably be back for an Xmas fic, no fear. My most ardent thanks to my chapter 2 and 3 reviewers:  
  
hakkai-san -- dat's cos I only just started writing it! XD  
  
Konzen -- blood has been corrected. Sankyu!  
  
sf -- I actually got a review from SF. I am blessed, and I take thine tips to mind! *gives cookie*  
  
ChaosD -- Nope, just a bunch of long sentences. Although I must say, that's a TEMPTING proposition...;)  
  
Erutan X. -- YW. I really hope Saiyuki in ANY form comes to the UK soon. :)  
  
B.O.I. -- Happy working on Gatsby! Thanks for 'faving' me!  
  
lizalou -- thanks for your comments!  
  
chiefraz -- 'sleeping beauties'? Oy. *LOL* Glad you enjoyed it.  
  
nameless reviewer -- thankee. I LIKE Gojyo's bandanna.  
  
KarotsaMused -- enjoy the last installment! *bows out* 


End file.
